Breathing Through My Heart
by Catharsiss-BridgetteHayden
Summary: Some people cry when they feel good. Really good.


WARNING: No plot. One shot. This is storytelling that is very intimate and some might say purely physical. Do not read if graphic slash bothers you. This isn't quite that, but it's close enough. For those of you who are accustomed to a certain quality from me, different days have different stories. I think this has something to do with having to keep from showing it in Harry's story for now.

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Work Text:

Draco needs to cry. That's why he lets Harry make love to him. That's why he lets Harry get a little rough. Harry's weight, his strength, that crazy look in his eyes when they both know he's not going to hold back, no matter what Draco says, is what they both want. Without his glasses, it's a disturbing look on Harry, and Draco is counting on it.

He's counting on the recklessness that Harry is famous for. Counting on those quidditch biceps and his thoughtless power, to make the world fall away. The creaking of their bed is a focal point, a witness, an auditory time keeper that proves this is happening. Proves his legs are open wide. This is something he doesn't do for anyone, and the scraping knock of the bed proves that Harry needs it as much as he does. Harry is causing these sounds.

The position is too vulnerable, too like a woman in medical stirrups, but he's letting Harry fill the space between his thighs and it doesn't feel at all the way it looks. Harry's body is fulfillment. It is release, when it covers his, and is dense infusion of granite-heat when Harry weighs him down. He can't escape between the pressure that embeds him into the mattress and he likes not being able to escape.

When they are like this, he's glad that he's lighter and slender, and that Harry is heavier and darker. The strongest person is the one shouldering the responsibility, and this is what Harry does for him. He needs to know how much his body is wanted, and this is how Harry tells him.

Feelings. They don't come out until Harry pushes them out. With his tongue and with his hips. It's better when they're fully clothed, because then they have to move more and work harder to feel each other. Draco can't cry with just anyone because it isn't about pain. This isn't even about sex. It's about getting something no one else can give him. It's about being filled with emotion to the point of bursting. It is so much more than sex, so much more than predictable body fluids.

He wasn't allowed to feel at home. Feelings meant betrayal. Feelings meant loving people his father didn't want him to love. Feeling meant freeing them and risking wrath upon his whole family. But what his father didn't know, was that he'd only dammed himself up, and at the end of the day, he'd kill to just fucking feel. He'd kill to be ridden like this.

Only Harry wasn't afraid to make him hurt so sweetly. Only Harry was too gentle to say no, but rough enough to graze places inside him that nicer men were afraid to reach. Not just his body. It felt like Harry was rolling his soul. If he looked vulnerable beneath Harry, for even a second, then so be it. If his father ever walked in on them, then so be it. If he needed Harry's thrusts to push tears out of him, then he would take his fill.

People who dwell on the surface of their emotions, "surface dwellers," without fully understanding them, often think that tears are only about sadness and suffering, and that right is right and wrong is wrong. But a Death Eater's son knows differently. A Death Eater's son knows that wrong is feeling trapped in helplessness, and right is Harry on top of him, the only way out. The only light.

A Death Eater's son lives in the gloaming, where it's never fully day, never fully night, and it takes Harry working till his sweat falls onto Draco's face and chest, that relief from being pulled by both worlds finally come.

Draco's life has forced him to go deep into his feelings in order to survive, and he's found treasures there, that others misunderstand. He's found tears. Not Harry. Not this dark savior who resents being chosen, resents being good when he wants to be bad, resents being held to a higher standard. Harry doesn't judge him. Instead, he watches and seems to drink Draco's tears, his eyes glutton for more and grateful for what Draco is showing him. Delicious, secret, too good to hold back.

The world never gets to see this. Draco's hands scraping over the dimples at the base of Harry's back, demanding Harry deeper, harder, more, and never never stop. Even when we're not doing this, even when we have to be in public, just please don't ever stop giving me this.

Tears are the breaking point. It happens on his back. He takes Harry's thrusts because it's wonderful, not because it hurts. But both reasons look the same._ Both reasons look the same._ Beneath Harry, he's learned that crying is just as essential as breathing, just as vital as a beating heart. Mercifully, Harry lets him without making him feel ashamed of it.

If Lucius ever caught them, he would think that Harry was killing Draco. When it's this wonderful, the tears look exactly the same.

End


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